Nothing Beautiful
by slyprentice
Summary: It was never going to be something beautiful, Harry knew that.


**Title:** Nothing Beautiful  
**Author: **Prentice  
**Pairing:** Harry/Tom Riddle  
**Feedback:** Is much appreciated...

**Word Count**: 833  
**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Warnings:** None  
**Genre:** Slash  
**Summary: **It was never going to be something beautiful, Harry knew that.  
**Story Notes: **blah indicates thought.

* * *

**Nothing Beautiful**

The pain was unbearable and there was nothing he could do to escape it. It encompassed him entirely; mind, body and soul. It was every where, on every surface. It washed over his body, jerking it back and forth, to and fro until he was left a shaking, huddled mass; it infested his mind, plucking nerves until flashes of bright white and black dots danced behind his eyelids; it trickled into his soul, pounding it against it's fleshly walls and making it howl for freedom. There was no running away from it, no turning his back on it. He had to endure and soon it would be over.

Harry Potter shuddered, a choked sob gurgling in his throat as he pulled his knees to his chest, instinctively wrapping sinewy arms around them. The excruciating pain would stop soon. It had too. Any one person could only survive Crucio for so long before they would succumb to the pain; either by falling into unconsciousness or going completely insane. In either case, he knew, they would quickly be dispatched off and then it would be over. Then it would be done.

_Please, God, let this be over soon. _He prayed, another burning flash of pain slicing through him. He knew it would be, it had to be, soon. These torture sessions never lasted long nowadays. In fact, this was the first one he'd had to endure in weeks, months even, if he could remember correctly, that was this long. Which only meant one thing: this person, whoever they were, was most likely a witch or wizard trying to fight the curses off but only succeeding in making the torment longer.

And, more often than not these days, it made Harry want to scream, to cry, to vomit because here and now as he endured the pain with them he wished they'd just die so he could be at peace. Wished they would succumb and he wouldn't have to feel their pain, hear their screams and sometimes even see their faces. He thought this so much, at times it would become a chant within his mind: _Just die. Just die. Please, just die. Just die. Just die and it'll be over. Just die._

It was sick, he knew. He shouldn't think those things; he shouldn't want the person to die to be out of pain. He shouldn't want them to just give in but he did and he couldn't stop himself. They wouldn't win their fight against the Death Eaters or Voldemort. They weren't strong enough to fend them all off. _So please,_ he thought, _please just give in and breathe your last breath. I promise to avenge you, I promise to make things right, but please, just let go._

Another burst of pain, one so powerful he felt his heart throb into his throat, and it was over. It was done. He could breathe again. He could move and not feel as though he were rolling in hot coals. In an hour or so, he could even be brave Harry Potter again and not have to think about how he'd witnessed and been part of a person's last pain on this Earth.

But not here and not just yet, no.

Here and now, right now, he could lay and wait while his lover got rid of the remnants of what once was a human being and then give him the comfort he so craved, so wanted, after such an ordeal because - yes, while Voldemort was a sick, twisted mass murdering psychopath whom deviled in torture and a form of genocide - Tom Riddle was a man who watched over him just as much as Voldemort did.

Tom was a man who came to him through soft touches and mental caresses. Who soothed his aches and kissed his bruises; that cradled him in his mind and made love to him in his heart.

Tom was a man who would take him in hand, pump him slowly, purposefully, until he was trembling and moaning and begging to be stretched, to be filled. And, somehow, some way, Tom would.

The man would tease him, stretch him, make him beg and then wonderfully, magically, fill him so completely that he was sure each and every time that he would shatter into a million pieces. But he never did. Even when Tom's warm, husky voice was whispering promises and love and pressing magically forged kisses to his neck, his eyes, his mouth because he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this would never last long enough for him to count as real.

This would never be something beautiful and open and wonderful. This would be stolen moments when Voldemort's bloodlust had been appeased and Tom was able to force himself to the fore. This would be pain and suffering and, in the end, it would be Harry shattering himself by killing Tom. By killing Voldemort. By killing his pain and his happiness, all in one single spell.

END


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